"I said, do you have any clothes from back when you were a kid mom?"
Her daughter's question seemed innocuous enough; all she wanted was some clothes for the 80's themed dance the city high school was throwing in two months' time. Yet the inquiry sent Tangerine into a brief but potent catatonic spell.
She had clothes. Plenty in fact.
Once upon a time in a crappy basement, her seventeen year old self once had aspirations of conquering the fashion world in New York, or Hollywood. She would sell her creations at a nondescript dance club and bolt once she had enough money to move on to bigger and better things. Yet almost thirty years later, she had long since put aside her needle and thread and focused all her time in being a single mother living in a suburb on the outskirts of said city with a fifteen year old daughter of her own.
"Uh, mom." The daughter replied snapping her fingers in an effort to regain her attention.
"Oh, yes Rosa. Yes I do, follow me."
Through the years, Tangerine had tried to forget that chapter of her life. But with each step up the attic stairs, the years of work she had done in trying to forget the events of her youth undid themselves. The crushing final blow came when she came upon the dusty tarp tucked in the corner of her attic. The plastic sheet was removed, uncovering a dozen or so boxes of clothes Tangerine had sewn as a teenager. It all came back to her in a flash: her entire relationship with Juice and his goon squad, her 'bad attitude' to paraphrase a random customer from the dance club, the disastrous launch of her label at McBundy's, and a lovesick teenage boy working in an antique shop that befriended seven wastebasket-dwelling urchins who sewed clothes.
She made a lot of ugly choices in her quest to be the next big thing in fashion. But despite it all, she couldn't just ditch the clothes, she worked too hard on many of them.
"Wow. Where did you get those clothes?" Rosa squealed.
"I made them."
"What?"
"I made them."
"You made these?"
"Are you just going to repeat what I say or help me bring these down?"
Hauling the boxes down the attic stairs took less time than Tangerine thought. With her daughter's help and enthusiasm, the work got done in a timely manner. The two of them excitedly/nostalgically pawed through each carton's treasures (surprisingly well preserved given the time up in the attic), with the younger of them musing over which of her friends would look the best in this or that piece
"Honey," Tangerine said. "I don't mind you being generous with my creations. They've been sitting in the attic all this time, it's not like I'd miss them. But all I ask is pick something for yourself before divvying everything up."
"Of course I am!" Rosa responded incredulously. "I just haven't found anything yet that I…"
She stopped suddenly as from the corner of her eye, the girl came upon matching set plastered with assorted roadway signs that appeared to fit her like a glove. As Rosa examined herself in the mirror, she gathered up a fistful of accessories and began to try and match them with her new outfit.
"Mom, which bow looks better with this?" Rosa said once her collection had been whittled down to a fistful of bows.
"The yellow one." Tangerine replied giving a small smile.
As Rosa returned to preening in the mirror, her mother marveled and got lost in how much she and her daughter could've easily passed as twins back in the day. After taking a selfie and posting it to her assorted social media accounts, Rosa messaged some of her friends about her mom's haul. Sure enough, within the hour seven other girls showed up at the house.
"Girl, you look on fleek!"
"Damn!"
"Seriously, take a Selfie in that. With me this time."
"With all of us."
"Mrs. T, I didn't know you made clothes."
And so went the afternoon as the girls peeled open each box at breakneck speed like kids at Christmas. Clothes were pawed through, tried on, and accepted/rejected as each girl saw fit. Tangerine implored the girls to enjoy themselves as article of clothing they took was one less she had to put back and store away for goodness knew how much longer. In time, each girl left taking a couple more outfits with them so that friends who couldn't be there could have one. The once imposing collection had been reduced to four and a half boxes, one of which still remained unmolested.
"Hey mom," Rosa said. "We never got around to opening up this one."
Tangerine's eyes widened as she saw a faint red Sharpie 'X' on the corner.
"Rosa!" She began sharply while snatching the parcel into her arms. "I…did you ever hear the story of Pandora's Box?"
"Is that anything like Spotify?"
"According to legend," Tangerine replied shaking her head. "All the troubles of the world were once squeezed away into this box until some nosy little girl called Pandora released them. Let's just say the same principle applies here."
Later that night, with the door shut, the light on and the assurance of her daughter as a sound sleeper, Tangerine crept back up to the attic and proceeded to open the box as if she was peeling away her skin. Inside were not additional textile treasures, but lots of spiral-bound notebooks marked with Fashion Career on the cover in bold marker. Tucked away in the pages were a large assortment of photos, flyers, and newspaper clippings. For nearly fifteen years, Tangerine had done all she could to keep her adolescence/early adulthood as much a secret as possible. This box in particular were the pieces of a puzzle were there. And allowing Rosa to pry through it would give her permission to put them together.
Tangerine's journals spanned two years for the most part (1985-1987) with scattered entries up to about 1991. Most of them were inventories of the stuff she sold at various dance clubs with little biographical drabbles and milestones here and there. A larger narrative began to emerge sometime around the spring of 1986 when she met some small-time dope dealer/thug named Juice and his two-body posse. As much as she found herself swelling with equal parts pity and amusement with some other local boy named Dodger and his comparatively juvenile attempts to woo her with crap from the curio shop he worked and lived at, Juice had the club connections and means to get her to the top. A sentiment that often reared its ugly head when she came to learn that Dodger was Juice's primary punching bag and justified her silence on the matter.
Mon. 6/8/1987- Another day with Juice and the Gang in the park, and of course he's got to pick on Dodger. I'm not going to defend the kid, or pretend that it's just a damn coincidence that he and I always seem to cross paths, but I still can't see why he is incapable of leaving the kid alone. Today he had Wally toss him into a puddle for two dollars. TWO FRIGGING' DOLLARS. You're this badass drug dealer, chasing down a kid in broad daylight for chump change.
Sat. 6/13/1987- Give you one guess who tagged along to Club Ultraviolet with me to sell clothes yesterday? As much as I want to give Dodger points for tenacity, I just wish he'd take a hint that even if I did like him, it still wouldn't work out because it would give Juice even more reason to blow his lid. Then again, if the kid can still follow me around after being tossed under a sewer pipe and left to bathe in its contents, I guess he'll never learn. He was lucky though. Juice had the last guy that asked me for directions (yes, you heard right) tossed in cement that was later poured into the East side of the highway. Dodger only got a sewage bath for sniffing my hair and giving me a random pin. Anyway, I ended the night with $600 more than I did and passed a new milestone in literally selling the shirt of my back. I can't begin to imagine the hell for poor Dodger in seeing my body in that light. Everything seemed to go good until Juice showed up and took every cent I made. P.S. how the kid managed to squeeze himself in that duffel bag when Juice showed up was pretty ingenious.
Tue. 6/23/1987- Maybe I've been going about this whole fashion thing the wrong way. It's been almost two years since I moved here and I kind of have to wonder what I gain anymore with Juice on my side. Yeah, I get his assurance that club owners aren't going to bug me for soliciting, but not much else. On top of the fact that he's abusive, a 40% cut of what I make goes to him and the gang and I retain enough to get by.
Then there's Dodger. Poor, puppy-eyed Dodger.
Right after Juice left, he came in wearing this really impressive coat and claims to have more clothes he's willing to sell along with mine (or at least try to). I want to humor him but the jacket is just breathtaking. As an added bonus, he doesn't have a label! A couple Fridays with him and my dream of looking at this dump from the rearview mirror just might be a reality by Christmas. Hell, I'm sure he'd fork over his cut from the night if I sweet-talk him enough. As it was the kid damn near creamed his pants when I told him how the jacket made him look sixteen.
Sure enough, tucked in the journal by the passage was a photo of Dodger clad in a coat that clearly looks like it had been designed for some band camp's tribute to Michael Jackson. Tangerine's thoughts turn to the day she did a double take upon meeting Dawkins, a kid from Rosa's class that agreed to be her study-buddy. He was almost the spitting image of Dodger, save for crew cut and deep mahogany covered hair that fell over his head like a mop when it grew out (unlike (Dodger's full head of dirty blonde hair). That aside, the resemblance was all too uncanny. Come to think of it, Dawkins even mentioned something about a family owned thrift store in the city.
I told him we'll make our move on Friday, Club Ultraviolet again (I seem to have a following there more than anywhere else). Wish me luck.
Tangerine flips the page and finds a flier advertising a fashion show that July. Her eyes begin to tear up as they come upon a tangerine shaped logo with a green banner bearing her name. The image takes up a good portion of the paper along with a brief blurb about the details of her line. Behind that is another passage.
Tue. 7/7/1987- Busy couple of weeks since last entry, here's what's happened.
Tonight is my debut showing at the McBundy's department store. It's the biggest clothing retailer in the state. The owner even said that depending on how well my showing goes, they will carry my label. From there, who can tell what the future holds for me; Milan, London, New York. This is the show that will make me a star. All I need is anywhere between 500-1000 outfits to be modeled. Between Dodger and I this should be cake.
Which leads us to the second major development; it turns out that Dodger didn't make the clothes, but instead left that job to these ugly cretins he's had cooped up in the antique store. I am at a loss for words as to how skin-crawlingly repulsive and nauseating these little brats are; one has a fetish for eating toes, the baby-looking one has roadkill breath (and even that's way too generous), Snotty and Pukey (yes they have names but do I really care?) have the audacity to desire modeling my wares, and if I see Zit-Boy piss himself one more time… Yet, some cosmic force has blessed them with the talent for sewing these really awesome clothes. Dodger seems to have built some rapport with these hellions but he's still a thirteen year old boy; a nip on the ear or a caress of my finger and his loyalties to them are ashes.
Juice on the other hand, can't be placated that easily.
The kids made enough clothes for me now, but let's face it, down the road they're a liability. Sweat-shops don't exactly endear customers, no matter how ugly the kids who work there are in real life. I told him where Dodger keeps the kids cooped up and that the State Home for the Ugly would be more than glad to pay a king's ransom for their capture. Whatever loot those three get should (literally) buy me time to make it big and move on before anyone knows it.
Before Tangerine knew it, the little alarm on her phone began to beep. She jumps up, coming to grips with the fact that she did indeed crash and fall asleep in the attic. It's almost 7am. She hastily shoved everything back in the box and crept down the stairs. From the threshold of the attic door she peers around to the teensy space that Rosa called her closet and sees that she begins to stir but shifts and falls back asleep. After a sigh of relief, Tangerine takes one last step
*CREAK*
Rosa stirs to see her mother coming down the steps of the attic and quizzically looks up at her.
"Mom what the-"
"Rosa!" She said quickly. "I'm sorry. It's just that…when you get older, and you've held on to something for so long, like almost a lifetime. It feels weird once it's gone. You'll get it one day."
"Oh. Alright." she said shrugging her mother's sheepishness off.
The day went on as normal, with Rosa going to school and meeting up with friends to see a movie afterwards while Tangerine ran her daily errands. Ultimately, both women dismissed what happened last night as just a weird feeling of relief over getting rid of clutter and discussed no further. Later that afternoon however, Tangerine went back into the attic to reorganize the box's contents. The first thing her eyes came upon as she looked at the pile in the box was her diary, the page it opened too contained a passage from later that fall, late November to be exact. Underneath one entry was a clipping from the local paper's News in Brief section that had long since yellowed with age. Tangerine's face curled into a sneer as she looked at the modest photograph next to the article: a scowling young man in his early twenties clad in a brown blazer, neon mesh wife beater and Wayfarer sunglasses being escorted into court.